Chapter Four
J ackson woke up the next morning in his shoe-box-sized rental house, convinced of a singular, undeniable truth.
“I should’ve left when I had the chance.” He scrubbed his face as he muttered the words out loud.
Bishop responded with one of the snorts Jackson had been subjected to multiple times throughout the night.
The dog was relentless. He hadn’t gone anywhere near the green plaid dog bed in the living room, instead pawing at the couch all evening while Jackson sat scrolling through the television channels, watching himself botch a press conference that should’ve been a walk in the park.
He’d finally relented and hauled the bulldog onto the sofa, where he’d commenced with snoring so loud that Jackson had been forced to turn the volume on the TV up to an ear-splitting decibel.
One pepperoni pizza and three root beers later, Jackson had finally dragged himself toward the lone bedroom and collapsed onto a bed that was significantly smaller than his Wyoming king mattress back in Chicago.
His feet fully hung off the end of the bed, which in and of itself wouldn’t have been so bad.
But just as he’d been drifting off to sleep, he’d felt something warm and wet slurping at the sole of his left foot.
Bishop, of course.
“For the last time, you’re not getting up here,” Jackson said as he pushed himself up to a sitting position and squinted at the sunshine streaming through the eyelet curtains. “No chance, dog. There’s barely room for me on this bed.”
He was finally beginning to understand the weird mascot clause in his contract. Subjecting a pet to a revolving door of coaches as caretakers had seemed cruel at first, but now he got it. Bishop was a jerk, full stop.
The dog had parked himself at the foot of the bed all night, snorting, snuffling and licking in an effort to wear Jackson down. No chance. He’d pretty much lost control over every facet of his life in recent weeks. This was where he drew the line—no dogs on the bed, period.
Consequently, he was now completely sleep-deprived on the morning of his first full day of work, in addition to feeling like the town villain. Oh, joy.
He knew that parade had been a bad idea.
Just like he knew he didn’t belong in this place and knew that he had no business whatsoever coaching high school kids.
He should’ve stood his ground with Harper yesterday and forced her to see reason.
At this point, even she would surely admit that this entire endeavor had been a terrible idea.
Jackson’s cell phone rang and he fished around the bedsheets until he found it.
He’d nearly dropped it on his face last night when his eyes closed as he was reading his hate messages on social media.
Not an ideal bedtime routine. It might’ve even had more to do with his restless night than Bishop’s woeful antics, although Jackson would never admit as much to the dog.
He glanced at Harper’s name scrolling atop the iPhone’s screen and his gut churned anew.
“Good morning, Harper,” he said, feigning ignorance. Maybe news of his glaring insensitivity hadn’t made its way beyond Texas quite yet.
“Good morning? Seriously?”
Then again, maybe not.
“Look, it started out great, okay? The news outlets are only showing the bad parts.” He threw his legs over the edge of the dollhouse-sized mattress and climbed out of bed, tripping over a lump of bulldog in the process. Sure, now Bishop had decided to sleep.
“The bad parts?” Harper sighed. “This is more than bad, Jackson. It’s a complete disaster. This was supposed to be your redemption tour, and somehow, you’ve managed to screw it up in less than a day.”
“The press is the press. You know how they are. Nothing sells like a negative news cycle. That doesn’t mean the people of Bishop Falls feel the same way.” Although Calla Dunne undoubtedly did. “They threw me a literal parade yesterday.”
“I’m aware. And might I just say that only Jackson Knight could go from having women tossing lingerie at him to being universally despised in the span of an afternoon,” his agent said crisply.
It was never a good thing when she started talking about him in third person.
Jackson jabbed at the ancient Mr. Coffee machine on the kitchen counter. “That hurts, Harp.”
“Good. That was my intention,” she said.
He didn’t bother defending himself. Sometimes it was easier letting people believe the worst about him than trying to convince them otherwise.
Jackson had learned that lesson a long time ago.
The entire time he’d been in school, he’d been known as one of the Knight boys—the youngest child of an alcoholic father and a mother who’d walked away without a backward glance when he’d been just a baby.
His older brother had all but raised him, and that upbringing hadn’t been pretty.
Teachers, school administrators and pretty much every adult he’d come across as a kid expected him to be an undisciplined, disrespectful mess. For the most part, he had been.
Until football.
The sport had saved him, and while he’d never been an angel, he’d straightened up his act enough to graduate and go to college on an athletic scholarship.
He’d been a first-round draft pick when he’d gone pro, and by any standard of measurement, he’d been an asset to his team for as long as he’d been on the roster.
But no matter how many franchise and league records he smashed, he’d never been able to outrun his upbringing.
Everyone still expected him to be a screwup, especially the press, who covered every single one of his mistakes like it was the end of football itself.
And he’d definitely made his share of questionable choices—especially during his rookie year when life as a pro had been shiny and new. He’d spent his money as quickly as it had come in. He’d partied between games instead of resting. He’d dated…a lot.
But then his brother, Ryan, had come to visit, and Jackson could see how disappointed he was with the way Jackson was behaving. They weren’t the Knight boys anymore. It was long past time to grow up.
So that’s exactly what Jackson had done.
He’d turned himself around and made the Cyclones his number-one priority.
Apart from Ryan, they were his only priority.
But after a year of making an idiot out of himself, the press was only too happy to keep running negative stories.
These days, a lot of them weren’t even true. As for the others…
Certain things were just private. Even Harper didn’t know the whole truth, and if Jackson could help it, she never would.
Silence stretched over the phone line as the coffee maker spit out a dark, foul-smelling sludge. Even the appliances in this town hated him.
“Are you dropping me as a client?” he asked, head pounding.
“No,” she said, and at last, he heard a note of sympathy in her tone. “Not yet, anyway. But that press conference was a complete disaster. You need to fix this. Immediately .”
“Will do.”
“I’m serious, Jackson. You need to find a way to get back in that local reporter’s good graces,” Harper said. “The one with the brother.”
“Her name is Calla. Calla Dunne,” he said as the memory of those long legs and red cowboy boots floated through his mind.
Why did he get the feeling that getting on her good side was going to prove all but impossible?
A firm knock sounded on the front door before he could contemplate that question, and Jackson’s head snapped up. Who on earth could that be? The greater population of Bishop Falls, intent on tar and feathering him before he found a decent cup of coffee?
“I’ve got to go,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair as he strode toward the door. “Someone’s here.”
“Fine. But fix this . I mean it, Jackson,” Harper said. Then she ended the call without bothering to say goodbye.
Jackson shoved his phone into the pocket of his jeans—the same ones he’d been wearing since he’d landed in Texas.
He’d slept in his clothes since he hadn’t bothered to open his suitcase yet.
Possibly, he never would. There was always a chance the knock at the door wasn’t Calla at all, but Principal Dean or the athletic director, coming to fire him in person.
Part of him—the delusional, optimistic part that was more often than not outweighed by his self-destructive tendencies—hoped that wasn’t the case. He was here, wasn’t he? He may as well stay…
For now.
Anyway, if he didn’t clean up this mess, there wouldn’t be anything left for him in Chicago. Or anyplace else.
He let that sobering dose of reality settle in the pit of his stomach as he swung the door open and found a guy about his age dressed in a green Bishop Bulldogs jacket and matching baseball cap standing on the welcome mat.
The khakis and athletic shoes he was wearing, coupled with the bulldog gear, made Jackson think he might be a fellow member of the coaching staff.
On the flip side, maybe not. Was there anyone in this town whose wardrobe didn’t consist primarily of the school colors?
Just one, apparently, he thought as a fresh wave of shame washed over him. Calla Dunne.
“Hey.” Jackson cast a wary glance at the stranger. A school identification tag hung from a lanyard around the man’s neck, along with a whistle. Definitely part of the football program.
He’d thought the guy looked vaguely familiar.
The other coaches had been seated onstage behind him during the press conference.
He’d only gotten a quick glimpse of them when he’d taken his place behind the podium, and since everything had soon devolved into a chaotic mess, Jackson had yet to formally meet his staff.
“Hey.” The guy offered his hand to Jackson for a shake. He didn’t exactly smile, but the cordial greeting had to be a somewhat good sign. Perhaps he hadn’t been sent to escort Jackson out of town. “Cade Montgomery. Offensive coordinator and quarterbacks coach for the Bulldogs.”